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Growing up in a house full of antiques wasn’t quite as interesting as one would imagine. It was cool to have a suit of armor in my own room, but another thing altogether when I wasn’t allowed to touch it. I suppose it’s where I got my sense of adventure and intrigue from, sleeping in a house that contained so much history. There were favourite pieces, for sure: that egyptian bracelet procured from a man looking to sell the heirloom to buy his wife an engagement ring, the 17th century sword given by an old townsfolk whose family had seen royal bloodlines centuries past, or even the handcrafted rocking horse found and restored by hand with workmanship so delicate it looked almost alive in the correct light.
But my favourite, by far, was the locket.
It was so incredibly intricate and frail-looking, silver vines twining delicately around a black stone of sorts. When I was a kid, I remembered spending hours mesmerized by it, peering at it eagerly through the glass case it was kept in. It had always been my favourite thing in the world, and every birthday whenever anyone asked me what I wanted, all I could think about was that locket. I never knew why. I’d looked in other stores, seen pieces that cost hundreds more and looked just as finely crafted, but nothing ever drew me to it like the locket. Dad said it belonged to my great great grandmother, and they couldn’t bear to leave it up for sale.
So when someone came into the shop asking about a locket, with a description that could only be described as intensely accurate, you could consider my interest piqued.
It’s always late, maybe twenty minutes before closing, when she would appear. Always looking like she’d just gotten out of bed, and making me want to jump right into one with her. Just the right amount of dishevelled to make you think about sex: long dark locks that fell in haphazard waves, ridiculously minimal clothing just barely clinging onto her slight frame, and that crooked smirk which somehow made her lips look even more kissable.
She would enter, eyes perusing the shelves almost lazily, but her steps always led her past every shelf before leaving. She’s not the weirdest customer we’ve had by far, but she was probably the most iconic. Silent, brooding and obviously searching for something we didn’t have in the shop.
After a month or so of her regular visits, she comes in. She looks so tired, much more than usual, clutching a piece of paper to her chest. If not for the black corset and tight leather pants, I might have almost mistaken her for a lost child. For the first time, she saunters up to the counter, startling me out of my usual Saturday night daydreams of going out.
“Hi, how can I help you today?”
The paper slides over the counter in lieu of a response, black fingernails immediately shifting to drum loudly on the hardwood table. Carefully, I flip the paper over, and my heart catches in my throat when I recognise the drawing. It’s my locket. The little piece of unassuming jewellery that I’d spent years trying to find a replica of and knew that there was none like it. Trying not to show my surprise, I look up at her with a shaky smile.
She must’ve seen the hesitation on my face, an eyebrow quirking upwards in question, a crooked smile slipping easily onto her features, “What’s wrong cupcake? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Her voice is still husky from sleep, rough and harsh on my already rattled nerves.
“I… I uhm…” I shake my head a little, tightening the grin on my face in hope of looking normal, “That’s a very specific piece of hardware you’re looking for. What you see in the shop is what we’ve got, so I don’t know if we’d have it considering you’ve seen all the stock.”
The amusement on her face faded at my words, fingers stilling to grasp the paper. The longing in her eyes is almost tangible as she inspects the image again, roving over the incredibly detailed sketch as if it were a lover. For a moment I feel like I’m interrupting something intimate, my own hands wringing uselessly behind the counter. I shiver, feigning a cough to hide my discomfort.
“Sorry, I don’t think I’m able to help you much today, if something like that comes in I’ll be sure to let you know, Miss…”
“Carmilla. But drop the Miss creampuff, it doesn’t suit me,” the small smile on her face is almost genuine as she collects her paper, and she looks up at me. There’s a tiny pause in her motions, eyes widening for a second before the smile grows wide. “And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”
“Laura,” I squeak, unable to hide the blush that rises in my cheeks, “My name’s Laura.”
Carmilla nods, tucking the drawing into the waistband of her pants. Slowly, she takes a couple of steps backwards, eyes never leaving mine, searching and intense. When she finally turns to leave, she flashes one last wink over a bare shoulder.
“See you around, Laura.”